


Sunstroke

by Black_Crystal_Dragon



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Heat Stroke, Hot, M/M, Summer, Sweat, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-07
Updated: 2009-05-07
Packaged: 2019-04-24 19:39:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14362233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Crystal_Dragon/pseuds/Black_Crystal_Dragon
Summary: It’s a hot summer’s day in London, and Crowley’s spending it in St. James’ Park.





	Sunstroke

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hinna_koto](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=hinna_koto).



> Apparently [hinna_koto](https://hinna-koto.livejournal.com/) asked me for Aziraphale/Crowley UST and I obliged.
> 
> Archived to AO3 18 April 2018.

London was uncomfortably hot. Its citizens roasted on the Underground and baked in the crowded streets. The newspapers were taking a delight that Aziraphale would term unholy in bemoaning global warming and tallying the number of sunstroke and dehydration victims hospitalised.

Meanwhile, the sun glared down upon the city like the eye of a vengeful God, and Crowley took advantage of it to work on his tan. The sunny spots of St James’ Park were deserted in lieu of the midday heat and even the shady patches were far from crowded. Those office workers unlucky enough to be trapped in London during the heat-wave preferred to remain inside over their lunch hour, huddled in the cool of air conditioning, and everyone able to feasibly escape the city had already done so. The demon lay full-length along a bench in the open sunlight, his shirt unbuttoned and his arms folded behind his head for a pillow.

“You know, I think you’re the only person within at least a hundred miles who’s enjoying this,” said a disgruntled and very familiar voice. A shadow fell across his face and Crowley opened his eyes. Aziraphale was leaning over him, his head outlined in sunlight and his upside-down expression duly lost in shadow. Crowley pushed himself up onto one elbow and twisted around to look at the angel, shading his eyes with his hand.

“It’s not my fault,” he said. Aziraphale made a shooing motion; Crowley took the hint and sat up properly, swinging his legs off the bench and shifting along it a little way so that Aziraphale could take a seat. He watched the angel sit down heavily, then continued, “It’s the way I was made.”

“I know,” Aziraphale sighed, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiping it across his brow. “It’s just frustrating that you’re not dying of heat-stroke when the rest of us are shrivelling up.” He looked up at the sky, his eyes narrowing as if in disapproval. “I don’t know how you can bear it, my dear.”

Crowley shrugged. “If it’s so terrible, why did you join me?”

“I just thought I’d say hello, while I was passing,” the angel replied, a little resentfully. “I can go, if you’d rather.”

“No, angel,” Crowley sighed, rolling his eyes. The oppressive heat made everyone crotchety, including angels, apparently. Aziraphale shot him an apologetic look, as if realising that his reaction had been a bit extreme, but before he could start apologising Crowley said, “I suppose it gets stuffy, in the shop.”

Aziraphale laughed mirthlessly, reaching up to fiddle with his collar. The movement caught Crowley’s eye, and he realised that, even now, Aziraphale had decided not to forego the tie. “You wouldn’t believe.”

“No, I probably wouldn’t,” he muttered, suddenly irritable, and reached out without thinking. He knocked the angel’s hand away and carefully slid the knot of the tie down until it fell apart, then pulled it out from the collar. Then he unfastened the top three buttons of the angel’s shirt. His skin was flushed from the heat and slick with sweat, but still untanned; Crowley watched a bead of sweat slide down the angel’s neck and come to a halt against his collarbone. Suddenly, he wanted to trace the path it had taken with his tongue, discover what Aziraphale’s skin tasted like beneath the salt tang of his sweat. He cleared his throat, looking up guiltily and trying to compose whatever reeling thought-process had thrown out that idea. “There. Better?”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows were raised in surprise and he was looking at Crowley oddly, but he smiled briefly. “Yes, I suppose.”

“I don’t know what possessed you to wear this thing,” Crowley grumbled, holding up the tie and looking at it with distaste, mostly to distract himself from Aziraphale’s body heat at his side. He couldn’t look at the angel; his smile had sent a familiar shiver down his spine that he didn’t want to contemplate. He was hyper-aware of their shoulders and thighs not quite touching. Then Aziraphale leant across to snatch his tie back, and their knees and fingers brushed together, injecting a heavy dose of lust into his veins.

“Thank you. There are standards, you know,” the angel replied, sounding rather cross. “My customers expect –”

“Your customers?” Crowley teased, daring to look him in the eye. It turned out to be a mistake; Aziraphale was easily flustered at the best of times and irritable in hot weather. The blush had risen further in his cheeks, and his curls had begun to stick to his damp forehead. His mouth hung open silently for a moment. When he spoke, Crowley wasn’t paying attention; he was imagining the angel’s face like this and yet not like this – under him, or perhaps over him – crying out in pleasure that Crowley had caused. His glazed eyes focused briefly on the angel’s moving lips, and suddenly he wanted to kiss them with an intensity he could not remember feeling ever before.

Crowley blinked, and finally registered that Aziraphale had said something. He sat up a little straighter and tore his eyes away from the angel’s mouth.

“What?” he snapped, his voice tight and slightly strangled.

“I said, are you all right, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, slowly and carefully. He placed his hand on the demon’s forehead. “I think you’ve been out in the sun for rather too long.”

“Urk,” said Crowley, eloquently, and thought that he was rather inclined to agree. Sunstroke was the only explanation he wanted to accept for the onslaught of desire for his angelic counterpart.

“Perhaps we should get into the shade,” Aziraphale suggested in a tone that brooked no argument, finally removing his hand from Crowley’s fevered skin. Relieved though he was at the loss of distracting skin-on-skin contact, Crowley had to suppress a whine.

Aziraphale stood up and he followed suit, tugging at his shirt until it covered his shoulders and fastening one of the middle buttons at random. Aziraphale took his arm and started to lead him towards the nearest patch of shade, shooting him concerned glances every few seconds as they walked. After a couple of steps, Crowley stopped short.

“Ice-cream,” he said, and Aziraphale gave him a look that spoke of deep concern for his mental health. He cleared his throat and mustered a glare. “We could get some, I mean, from the café. I’ve not totally lost it.”

The angel raised his eyebrows and muttered something that sounded rather like, “Are you sure?”

“There’ll be a table. And more than three flavours,” Crowley tried. He was annoyed that Aziraphale was casting aspersions upon his sanity, but it would be hypocritical to argue when he wasn’t quite sure his mind was functioning normally. He was, after all, fantasizing wildly about the angel, of all people. Even now, the touch of Aziraphale’s hands around his arm was enough to make Crowley’s stomach squirm.

“All right,” Aziraphale said, his face finally breaking into a smile as he turned them both around and started to walk towards the café. As they walked, the angel asked playfully, “Do you think they’ll have honey and ginger?”

“If you ask for it, they will,” Crowley promised, flashing him a grin.


End file.
